


Satinalia

by robotichawk



Series: Solona Amell's Adventures [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Double Penetration, F/M, M/M, Multi, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 10:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotichawk/pseuds/robotichawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair has never properly celebrated Satinalia with his lovers, what with the Blight distracting them all. It's been a year now since the death of the Archdemon, and he wonders if he would ever be able to spend this holiday with his Solona and Zevran.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satinalia

**Author's Note:**

> **_Satinalia_**  
>  Once dedicated to the Old Goddess of Freedom, Zazikel - but now attributed more to the second moon, Satina - this holiday is accompanied by wild celebration, the wearing of masks, and naming the town fool as ruler for a day. In Antiva, Satinalia lasts for a week or more, while a week of fasting follows. In more pious areas, large feasts and the giving of gifts mark the holiday. Satinalia is celebrated at the beginning of Umbralis.
> 
> _-From The World of Thedas Volume 1_
> 
> Umbralis is the 11th month of the year, more commonly known as Firstfall.

_Satinalia._

A day of bliss, laughter, and discarding of day-to-day worries. A day to be spent with friends and family, with those close to one’s heart. A day of feasts and love, of appreciation and happiness. A day to enjoy sitting by the warm hearth with one’s love, basking in their brilliant smiles.

For those who did not wear the King’s Crown.

Alistair had been receiving ambassadors from different countries all over the continent for weeks, sending blessings and good wills with the holiday season. Frankly, it just gave him more work to do. And more Orlesians to deal with. Maker, as if he didn’t tolerate them enough already.

Alistair sighed, slumped over the massive Ferelden throne topped with the carved dog’s head hanging over him. This feast has been going on for days now, reaching the peak today as his Court drank and laughed heartily like true Fereldens. He was glad they weren’t arguing like usual, the mood brightening up much better in his throne room with fine wine flowing freely, but happy and relaxed nobles brought about different set of problems.

Alistair nodded as yet another noble came up to offer him greetings, some pretentious gifts, and an introduction to his daughter. Minutes crawled by, slithering to a stop as the party went on. But the worst part weren’t the nobles, the endless inane chatters that bore him to his wit’s end. No, the worst part were the _women_.

Most of the world knew by now of his stubborn refusal to marry, of his vow to love just one woman till his last dying breath. He’d fought bitterly against the Ferelden Court which demanded him to take a Queen, had threatened to disappear into the ranks of the Grey Wardens for good this time unless they left the entire matter alone. He could not imagine living in a world where he was sworn to someone who wasn’t his Sol. King or no King, he did not intend to let her get away, _ever_.

So the throne of his Queen remained conspicuously empty, gathering a fine layer of dust beside his own on the dais. And vultures came pecking away at him, desiring the spot left vacant by his side during her frequent travels away from Denerim.

Women confident in their own charm and beauty often tried to seduce him with glittering smiles while his love was away, battling darkspawn and rebuilding the Grey Warden Order. Most weren’t Ferelden, but there were nobles who introduced him to their daughters, who urged him to look beyond the Hero of Ferelden to countless beauties that were hoping to carry his child.

He didn’t deign to tell them that the Grey Wardens were sterile. That he, the King of Ferelden, was sterile. They only wanted his royal blood, wanted his seed and nothing more. None ever saw ‘Alistair’ anymore, only the ‘King’. Or more accurately in this case, ‘path to Queen and power’.

Alistair stifled a groan as an Antivan beauty approached his throne, yet another guest he was entertaining at this party. She wore a rich crimson dress, a deep blood-red velvet clinging to her slender form like the embodiment of _sin_. Her lustrous black hair flowed like the river over her shoulders, drawing countless appreciative gazes to her exposed collarbones. The woman glided across the room, perfectly balanced and radiating with power as the mesmerized nobles parted before her. Maker, she was the most gorgeous noblewoman he’d ever seen... and the pretty ones were always the worst.

“Your Majesty,” she dipped into a graceful bow, beautifully executed with a hint of swelling breasts. He bit the inside of his cheeks as he noticed a brilliant red rose woven over the sash covering her heart.

“A pleasure, my lady.” He replied, trying to recall her name. Sadly, none came forward to match this intimidating lady waiting with her head cocked to the side, sparkling ebony eyes stealing his words away.

“My King,” she purred, and Alistair winced inwardly. Her voice was pitched too high for comfort, sounding strangely unnatural. “What an honor it is to meet the hero who stopped the Fifth Blight and saved us all from certain doom.”

“Ah… well…”

“And so handsome too!” She covered her lips with her long fingers, fluttering as she giggled prettily. “Your prowess as a warrior is well known even in the faraway lands of Antiva, my King. The rumors weren’t exaggerated, I see.”

Alistair shifted uncomfortably on his throne, inching ever so slowly away from her. He spent every hour that he could get away with in a training ring with his guards – he wanted to keep in shape, in case there ever came the time he needed to join his Sol out there again. But the way this woman’s gaze lingered over his form, the way it pierced through his thick furs left him incredibly unsettled.

“May I show you, my King, just how appreciative I am of your conquests?”

She trailed her fingers over her chest lightly, an innocent enough move. But her dark eyes promised him ecstatic pleasures, mindless passions.

He cleared his throat nervously, looking around for a way out, or for help, for _anything_ to save him. How he wished Solona was here to shield him; these women wouldn’t dare approach him with her smiling gently by his side. But Sol was somewhere in Antiva at the moment – ironically enough – and Eamon turned a blind eye to his current predicament, of course.

“I, uh, I’m sure I understand. No need to show me anything.” He stammered, very un-Kingly.

“It would be my _pleasure_ , your Majesty.” She murmured, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her rosy lips.

“Yes! Well, I, uh, uhm…” He desperately looked about, but none came to his rescue.

“My King?” She called softly, her eyes glinting with wicked joy.

“I’m uh, I don’t feel well.” He griped about, wishing fervently that his ears wouldn’t redden. But he could feel the heat burning at the tip of them already.

“Oh no! Are you ill?” She widened her eyes in mock-horror, stepping up to the dais as if it was the most natural thing to do. She leaned in close to peer at him and moved to bring her hand up to his forehead.

He jumped up, narrowly avoiding her touch. She cocked her head at him, her lips pursed at his blatantly rude gesture.

 _Uh oh_.

“I’m, ah, I’ll be fine. Too much wine, yes! I’ve had a tad too much to drink. Please excuse me. I’ll retire for the evening.” He muttered hastily, shooting a dark look at Eamon before fleeing out of the throne room without even a glance back.

 

***

 

He opened his doors and strode in quickly, shutting them before that red lady could chase him inside. Maker only knows what he would do if she really decided to follow him here. He shuddered, the goosebumps rise along his arms. Women were just darn scary sometimes.

A whistle of steel cutting the air was all the warning he had.

Alistair spun on his heel, turning and twisting just barely out of the way of something sharp slicing right where he’d been a moment ago. There was an electric charge in the air, the thick tension radiating from the deep shadows lurking in the darkness in his huge bedroom.

Alistair grasped at the pommel and drew his sword and immediately cursed it. He’d forgotten that the blighted thing was a ceremonial junk – it held no edge, just the shining useless jewels. But the attacker rushed him again, and Alistair had no time to lament the lack of proper weapon.

First strike came low and to his right, slow and predictable. Alistair flicked it away with almost a lazy flick of his wrist, using the flat side of his not-real sword. He stepped closer to the corner of the room, felt the shapeless lump circle around him.

Second strike also came in low, and to his left. Alistair slapped it away easily, the cut nowhere as threatening as the first attack had been. He took another step towards the corner where he had a sword hidden.

Third strike came, the infiltrator’s daggers catching dim light as it arched down towards his throat. Alistair spun again, parrying the blow wide, threw the attacker’s arms out to open their guard and stabbed towards their stomach. But the dark shadow cartwheeled backwards, away from his reach. It was all the time he needed to reach the nook in his room, to grasp at the hidden sword there.

But the sword wasn’t there. Maker, had the assassin cleared the room of his hidden arsenal of weapons before he’d arrived? All he had on at the moment was this ceremonial sword, and a small dagger hidden in his belt.

The knife screamed past his cheek, the icy cold radiating from the steel lingering on his skin. Too close. Far, far too close. It seemed the assassin was done playing around with him, the attacks growing fervent, daggers whisking by at a speed he could barely keep up to. Maker, he hoped this black shadow had snuck past his guards – if not, his guards probably weren’t in this world any longer.

Weapons screeched and sparked as steel met steel, and Alistair once again cursed the dull-edged ceremonial sword he held. It was difficult enough to face an assassin so skilled in this dark – he was dodging and parrying blows relying purely on his instincts and muscle memories. One slip, and his head would roll. He grunted as two twin daggers clashed against his guard, taking the heavy brunt of the weight of the blow. Thank the Maker he trained with Zevran during the Blight, or he’d never have lasted this long.

Alistair winced as a dagger snaked up along his dull blade, twisting the sword out of his grip as his attention wavered for a moment. It was a high cost to pay for his temporary lapse in focus. With a grunt Alistair pulled the hidden dagger from his belt, barely in time to block the next swing aimed for his jugular… Maker, he was in trouble.

His door clicked, swinging open quietly as someone snuck into his room.

 _Shit_.

“Stay out!” He shouted, just short of being sliced to ribbons as he saw a swish of red fabrics rustling into his bedroom out from the corner of his eyes. Had that woman truly followed him all the way to his bedchambers?!

“Impressive. You’ve _really_ kept in shape.” Her voice sang, closing the door behind her.

“What-”

The assailant whacked his hand with the hilt, forcing Alistair to drop his dagger. He rolled, escaping beyond the assassin’s reach just as that damnable chuckle rang out. A quiet, amused chuckle he recognized all too well.

“ _Zevran?!_ ”

“Ahhh, my good friend Alistair. It has been such a long time, no?”

“What are you doing here?!” He stomped over to the elf grinning far too happily, jabbing him in the chest.

“Why aren’t you in Antiva? How did you– oh blast it, it’s good to see you.” He swiftly pulled him into a bear hug, squeezing with all his might. It’d been too long since he’d seen him, since he’d shared a laugh with him. He’d truly missed his dear friend.

A blur of red flickered by his vision as the lady in red picked up the discarded ceremonial sword from the floor with a clatter and put it away. She was trying to be silent, to keep herself from disturbing them, but he realized that she was still there, witnessing something she probably shouldn’t.

“Who is she? Who are you? Why are you in my bedchambers?” He turned to where the woman was standing, squinting to see better in the darkness. But a swift wave with her hand and the candles in his room burst, bathing his enormous room in bright orange glow.

Andraste’s holy love, he knew of only one Mage who handled their magic with such confidence and grace.

“Solona?” He whispered, tentative and fearful. His heart stuttered, hope flaring up inside. He prayed, prayed that it was indeed her. Zevran released him, pushed him towards her with a gentle smile.

“Alistair,” her familiar voice lilted, and the red lady rushed into his arms. A dazzling swish of red fabrics, of charcoal hair, of citric scent and soft skin that fit perfectly in his arms clung to him, embraced him with bruising force, and he knew that it was her, beyond any shadow of doubt.

“Sol, oh Sol. Maker’s breath, I’ve missed you.” He breathed, his arms wrapping around her to hold her tightly, to embrace her as he’d done so countless times in his dreams. Her scent enveloped him immediately, overwhelming him with her presence, her warmth all too real in his grasp, and he squeezed tighter until she laughed, voicing her complaints of bruised ribs and collapsed lungs.

“Happy Satinalia!” She cried, and with a laugh of his own he released her gently, pulling away just enough to see her face. This time, a beautiful face he’d pictured a million times in his mind stared back up at him, her kind smile curling her full rosy lips, her passionate midnight eyes alight with happiness, and her cheeks flushed prettily as she laughed heartily, throaty and mischievous.

“How- Maker, what- I don’t even know where to start.” He mumbled, pulling her into yet another hug. He relished the feel of her soft flesh molding against him, her heat radiating through his furred garments.

“Magic,” she grinned, impish look flashing in her eyes. “I mixed Fear and Glamour, cast it over myself to hide my features. I was worried about my scent and my magic but you were so flustered that you did not notice at all.”

“True, I was rather surprised you returned to your bedchamber so promptly.” Zevran swaggered closer, flicking his daggers before sheathing them. “Even with my Warden supposed to chase you away from the banquet, I must admit I was prepared to wait longer.”

“What? You! Oh Maker, you know how terrifying those women can get! How could you use that against me? You’re a cruel, cruel woman.” He sniffed, feigning hurt as he pouted.

“I couldn’t help it! Oh Alistair, you should have seen yourself when I said ‘my King’. Oh, I had to bite my lips when you fled from me. I swear I would have laughed right there. You missed quite a sight, Zev.”

Well if she hadn’t laughed in his throne room, she more than made up for it now. She shook with laughter in his arms, tears pooling at the tip of her eyes as she wiped helplessly at them before giving up and she wheezed painfully. Alistair shot her a dark look, though he could not stop an amused smile from playing by his lips.

“I will get you back for this, Sol.” He threatened lightheartedly, sharing a look with Zevran. He was certain the clever man could come up with something proper for his revenge during the remainder of the night.

When her laughter trickled away into quiet tremors, Alistair carefully picked her up and strode over to his bed through the second set of doors. Zevran followed them, closing the elaborately carved wooden doors behind him before lightly springing onto his massive bed. Alistair sat down as well, with his Sol balled up over his lap still giggling.

“Weren’t you two supposed to be in Antiva?” He asked, thumbing her dark wavy curls and tucking it behind her ear. She snuggled closer, burying her face into his chest as Zevran leaned back and trailed his fingers over the hard line of his shoulders.

“My Warden has developed this strange way of fast traveling. I myself am not so keen to use this method so often, but it is excellent for surprising old friends who are none the wiser, no?” He chuckled, brushing his lips feather-light over his ear. Alistair shivered involuntarily, his nerves immediately aflame. It’d been months since he’d felt an intimate touch from either of them – his body sang at the proximity of these two exotic creatures languidly relaxing in his bed.

“And we brought a gift,” she mumbled, drawing his eyes back down to her. Her crimson dress was rather crumpled hopelessly at the moment, her hair thoroughly disheveled after their crushing embrace. He allowed his eyes to drink in the sight, to enjoy her marvelous weight over his groin as his Sol purred contentedly with her eyes closed.

“Oh?” He smiled, stroking her cheek with his fingers. “I’ve missed this, you know?”

“That’s because I give the best gifts!” She declared, sitting upright over his legs. He didn’t want her to pull away from him – Maker, he wanted to press her into himself if it was possible – but she nearly vibrated with excitement and he allowed her to pounce off of him with an amused chuckle. Zevran placed his hand over his shoulder, leaning his head into the crook of his neck as they both watched Sol skip to a corner of his room and pick up a long parcel wrapped in navy silk before bouncing back towards the bed. She thrust the mysterious package towards him, which he accepted eagerly. Her gifts were generally as a rule much better than what the pretentious nobles tossed his way nowadays.

He ran his hand down the long length of it, the soft silk cool beneath his touch. It was long – longer than the length of his arm – and was tied loosely with brown silken strings.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Open it.” Zevran chuckled again, motioning for him to continue and Alistair tugged at the knot and watched it slip away. The silk rustled away to reveal a black, gleaming scabbard that lay beneath. He gripped the icy metal, hefted it out of the bundle of silk and stared open-mouthed.

It was exquisite. The scabbard alone was a fine work of art – the black gleaming metal tapering in a graceful arch to a pointed tip capped with gold. The hilt was long and sturdy, shining silver which complemented the black sheathe it was housed in and just the right thickness for his grip – no doubt Sol had told the blacksmith of his preferences when she’d commissioned this piece. But unlike the other swords he was used to, this one was adorned with sparkling jewels.

It wasn’t like the other junk he’d cursed moments ago – the flawless rubies were embedded in a pattern that reminded him of the rose he’d gifted her year and a half ago. They were out of the way of the hilt, providing unhindered access for his hands. The other gems were small enough that they caught the wavering lights and reflected them, but did not alter the balance and the weight of the sword.

Alistair drew the sword out of the scabbard, the pleasant _shng_ sound reverberating in his bedchamber as he freed the blade from the polished metal. The wicked edge shimmered, almost glowing in his hands as he inspected the length of the blade inch by inch. It was polished, sharpened, and runes etched meticulously into it. A master-crafted dragonbone longsword.

“Should the need ever arise for you to fight with a ceremonial sword, you would not have to rely on that useless trash the Court gave you.” She whispered, laying her hand over his. “It’ll be appropriate for you to wear to all the important parties you’re expected to attend to and yet be sturdy enough to protect you.”

“Sol, it’s perfect.” He breathed, staring at the blue-silver metal a moment longer before he sheathed it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled, leaning down to kiss him gently on the lips. It was a fleeting, chaste kiss that was soft and sweet, and yet it left him hungering, starving for more. He chased after it greedily, earning another giggle and one more kiss before she drew away.

A wrinkled pile of clothes fell unceremoniously into his lap, and he looked over to Zevran to see him grinning cheekily.

“Put that on, my dear friend Alistair.” He chuckled, handing another bundle of clothes to Sol as well. “This is my gift to you, my _King_. Reminiscing about your time spent as a commoner.” He drawled, emphasizing the ‘King’ with an unmistakable suggestive quirk to his lips. Alistair gulped.

 

***

 

“This is a _terrible_ idea.” He muttered, swatting at the dirt already streaked into his rough cotton shirt. They’d had to sneak past his guards – and of course Alistair fell off the tree branch they’d climbed to jump over the walls.

“I never claimed otherwise, dear Alistair.” Zevran chuckled, leading them further along the brightly-lit streets of Denerim market. Hundreds of people filled the wide market area, torches and lanterns lighting up the night with yellow and red flames until it was as if the sun was shining their way. Hot bodies rubbed against them, pressed in from every angle as they pushed and wove their way through the massive, rolling crowd. It was hard going – the people were drunk and laughing, nobody too steady on their feet as they cheered and danced in the confined spaces. Alistair gripped Sol and Zevran’s hands tighter lest he got separated in this chaotic mess.

“We are almost there!” Sol called back, turning to look back at him with a wink. She’d also changed out of her crimson ball gown into a white frock, foregoing her usual blue armors or enchanter robes. She wore heavy boots to protect her feet from being trampled on by others, but the usual Ferelden attire of thick furs were discarded tonight. The heat produced by liquor, excitement, and crowd was enough to keep them warm as if they were standing by the hearth, and only a thin layer of skirt brushed over her legs as she took point of their small group. Tonight’s purpose was to become lost in the masses, and apart from few hidden daggers and knives they’d all forgone their weapons and armors to go on this maddened adventure.

“Are you sure about this?” He shouted over the roar, trying to be heard as a town fool whooped and shook his naked bottom at the laughing crowd.

“Only if you are!” She shouted back, halting momentarily to gauge his reactions.

He was the King, the last of the royal Theirin bloodline. He was supposed to be up in his castle, sipping quality wine, chatting with nobles, and smiling at everything. Instead, he was out here clad in the roughest fabric and lost in the crowd. People shoved him and yelled, a few even sloshed their ale and spilled some on his boots. And his hand held Sol and Zev’s in a bruising grip, their warmth radiating through their touch.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be!” He declared, and Sol watched him for a moment before she nodded with a smile and hauled him along once again. He followed willingly, equal parts wrestling his way past the crowd and being dragged through by her insistent pull with Zevran somehow weaving past behind him like a fish swimming upstream.

They watched a group of band performing a musical comedy act at the center of the market, and Alistair laughed until he was bent over and wheezing. Zevran chortled, while Solona simply fell down and laughed until she ran out of breath. He hadn’t laughed so hard since the last time she’d visited him at Denerim months ago, and reveled in the feelings of losing it in a way he knew he never could at his Court.

They bought cheap tasty snacks at multiple food stands, and munched away happily at hot corns, cookies, and all sorts of manner of things he wasn’t too certain about (and did not examine closely for the sake of his sanity). They jeered at the poorly crafted masks some people wore, and cheered at some truly astonishing masks. Hours flew past as he shared the night of Satinalia with his Sol and Zevran, and he busied himself with laughter, songs, and pure bliss of having his love in his arms.

Eventually, they all tired and headed to the Gnawed Noble Tavern for a break. Alistair smiled and joked that the point of him becoming King had been made moot, as he had just stepped past the threshold of this tavern once again despite having been promised that as the King he would never have to again. Sol laughed heartily as she led her way to the back corner of the tavern, while Zevran disappeared to grab more ale for them all.

Gnawed Noble was packed even more than the market outside had been, with everybody squished up uncomfortably against each other. There wasn’t even a room to turn around, let alone sit down or walk. A fire blazed in the hearth in the main hall, warming the place up even though it wasn’t necessary. If the market had been warm, inside the tavern it was sweltering hot. The trapped heat inside the wooden establishment gathered, flushed the people swarming inside and grew hotter by the second. Smell of salty sweat and cheap ale permeated the air, giving it an almost syrupy texture which Alistair waded through. A few people turned around to grunt in annoyance or throw an insult as they shoved them out of the way to wiggle towards the hidden corner by the window, but not one pair of eyes widened with recognition at the King or the Hero of Ferelden stomping past them.

Alistair loved every second of it all.

After minutes of displeased grumbles, bruised toes, and rubbing against more sweaty skin than they ever wanted to, Sol and Alistair finally managed to stand huddled in a corner. Alistair was backed up against the wall, with Solona’s front all but pressed up against him. He could feel her breasts dragging up and down his chest as she took heavy breaths, the thin fabric doing nothing to muffle the sensations. Thick wall of flushed skin and flesh surrounded them, completely oblivious to the two living legends panting and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“I have to admit, this is much more fun than what’s going on in my throne room.” He laughed into her ear, knowing they possibly couldn’t be overheard in this roar of music, shouted talks, and laughter. He could barely hear her when she shouted right into his ear, responding to his playful remark.

“Everything in the Court is boring. Now this is a real party!”

“Once we get some ale, I’ll agree.”

As if on cue, Zevran appeared from the crowd holding mugs of ale while looking nonplussed of the ever-present wave of sticky flesh. He passed the drinks, squished up against Solona’s back as the patrons inside the tavern somehow squeezed in even tighter.

“A toast?” Zevran raised his mug, arching his brows.

“To Satinalia!” Solona called, raising her own mug.

“To being normal on Satinalia!” Alistair raised his mug, clanked loudly against the other two before he downed it. The heat was scorching in here, and the cool ale soothed his raw throat.

After draining the mug, they placed the empty mugs on a nearby table and stood about quietly, watching the tide of people ebb and flow with fascination and enjoying one another’s company until Sol wiggled against him. Alistair looked down to see her puckering her lips, obviously expecting a kiss. Well, he was only too happy to oblige. Alistair leaned down and pressed his lips on her, chaste at first – light and soft, tentative and hesitant. He cupped her jaw with his hand, tilted her head with a gentle tug. She returned it with a smile, kissing him back with unbridled longing. He nudged with his tongue, slowly coaxed her mouth open to taste a twinge of ale and sweet oranges. He’d missed that delicious citric taste and fragrance she always carried – and soon nipped and sucked, exploring her small mouth to reacquaint himself after a long period of absence.

She hummed pleasantly, approving. Before long Zevran joined in as well, his sensuous lips trailing along her ear, sucking and biting until she nearly buzzed with overwhelming sensations. He traveled lower, his white teeth nipping, scraping against the delicate skin beneath her jaw. Alistair stirred, lengthening slightly as her honey-sweet mouth claimed him, their tongues dancing together.

She whispered when they parted for breath, told him how badly she’d missed him, how she’d hungered for his warmth, how she pined for his laugh while she was away. Zevran chuckled as he peppered light kisses along the back of her tanned throat, chiming in once in a while with filthy comments of how they’d desired him in bed. Alistair laughed, promised them both to satisfy their simmering ache properly once they returned to his bedchamber with a shy blush painting across his cheeks. Solona crooned happily, laying her head against his chest after coaxing a promise of not teasing her in his bed with an adorable puff of air, but she continued to explore his muscled body, her fingers trailing along his wide-set shoulders, the strong jaw, the hardened biceps. Alistair smiled, patting her head and trying to think of calming thoughts to keep himself from growing fully erect in an exposed tavern. At least, he _was_ trying to until he felt an idle brush of fingers along his forearm.

He turned to look at Zevran over Solona’s head, who cocked his head towards the unsuspecting lady all the while rubbing her arms.

Alistair’s eyes widened, slowly grasping at what Zevran was hinting at. Maker, did he really intend to…? Here? _Now?_ Wow.

Zevran lifted his brow at him and shrugged, his meaning crystal clear. _You wanted a retaliation, no?_

Well he _did,_ but… but he was the King! And she was the Hero! They weren’t even supposed to be here, drinking amongst the commoners, let alone be caught in a public tavern with their trousers pulled down to their knees, her frock crumpled and hiked up along her slender legs, with him buried in her quivering sex, with Zevran thrusting deep into her bottom…

His treacherous cock twitched, stiffening fully at the obscene thought which flashed through his mind. Alistair cleared his throat and shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure building in his groin. Zevran must have noticed the subtle change because his smug grin definitely morphed into something more salacious.

_Your choice, my friend._

Zevran’s dark eyes danced, and Alistair nearly groaned. But he couldn’t deny the insistent throbbing in his breeches, the yearning that was demanding to be satisfied beneath the thin layer of fabric. Perhaps it was the ale, or perhaps it was his forced abstinence, months he’d spent away from her intoxicating presence. But the bulge in his pants grew and her breasts rubbing against him did not help the matters.

_Fine. I’ll bite._

Alistair rolled his eyes at him. Zevran chuckled, pleased, before he brought his left hand to knead at her breasts, pushing them against Alistair’s chest, getting her nipple to scrape along his rough shirt through her thin frock. His right hand wandered up a teasing trail over his muscled arms, stroking with fleeting touches with his fingertips. It wasn’t too suggestive, and yet Alistair felt his body clench in anticipation, his erection _straining_ against the thin fabric of his trousers.

There was no way Sol did not notice the length of him pressing up against her, and sure enough she lifted her head to look up at him with confused eyes.

“Wait, Alistair. What-” She stopped, pursing her lips as Zevran’s fingers flicked her nipples. She turned her head to glance at Zevran before looking back at him, her black eyes widening. “Here? _Now?_ ” She asked, looking around them. The wavering wall created by the crowd was still in place, creating a precarious veil to hide them from some unfortunate (or fortunate) onlookers.

“Only if you want to,” He nuzzled her hair, inhaling her heady scent.

“The choice is yours, my Warden.” Zevran sighed in her ear, his hot breath making her shiver visibly.

She worried her lower lip, scrunching up her brows. “What happened to needing a tent for stuff?” She asked half-jokingly. Alistair shrugged, pointing with a light tilt of his chin towards the elf who still held her breast in his hand. “He happened.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, dear friend.” Zevran chuckled.

They waited as Sol swept her eyes through the Gnawed Noble Tavern again, saw her worried eyes flicker to the people before settling over the pronounced bulge over his groin. A breathy moan escaped from her mouth, and she rolled her hips against them both almost involuntarily.

“Maker… this is madness.” She mumbled, closing her eyes. Then, she snapped them open with a crooked smile, winking at him. “But yes, let’s break some rules. _Yes._ ”

The moment the wonderful syllable fell from her lips Alistair captured her mouth again, devouring her. He bit at her swollen lips, his hand trailing down her white frock until he found the edge and bunched up the fabric in his fist. He slowly hiked it up, pulling, tugging until her leg was bared and he left the gathered fabric by her waist, his hand glossing over her smalls. The flimsy fabric growing slick with her essence already, and he moaned his appreciation into her mouth. His left hand did not idle by his side either. He grasped at Zevran’s firm buttock, kneading and squeezing in time with the elf’s ministrations on Solona’s breast and his own right buttock, feeling the deft fingers grabbing on to his cheek firmly.

Solona’s hands ambled lower over their shirts, past the waistband of their brown breeches to the blatant evidence of their arousal to cup them – and Alistair and Zevran sighed simultaneously as her long fingers caressed their balls through the thin fabrics. She rubbed them gently, stroked, and thumbed and from his past experiences Alistair knew she kept her two hands mirroring each other, performing exact same ministrations on them at the exact same time. Unable to help himself, he thrust into her palm in a feeble attempt to find some relief, to feel some friction against his cock. But the thin stitch of clothing which covered him foiled his efforts.

She hummed pleasantly, their mouths still locked in a kiss. She was rocking her hips with a slow rhythm, rubbing against his thigh as well as Zevran’s, her long fingers teasing out quiet gasps from them both. He heard Zevran’s breath catch just as she rubbed with a flat of her hand, pressing a little harder and groaned. The months spent alone, combined with the tantalizing prospect of possibly getting caught by someone in this rolling crowd was driving him to insane heights, the muscles in his thighs flexing and clenching, his rigid erection begging to be freed.

As if reading his mind, Solona started to unlace their breeches. Her fingers tugged at the tight laces one by one, loosening each strand before moving onto the next. He knew she wasn’t going slowly on purpose – it was simply difficult trying to disrobe two people at exactly the same pace. But he also knew she would draw out this delicious torture all too willingly until Alistair and Zevran were a whimpering, incoherent mess on the floor, begging for release they desperately craved with a smug grin.

Alistair shared a look with Zevran, and the elf gave him a silent nod. Trying his best not to succumb to her expert touches, Alistair pulled her smalls down the short length of her flawless thighs, a growl rumbling in his chest at the way she shimmied to help him expose her heated core. He left her knickers just above her knees, knowing that it would keep her legs trapped, and carefully dipped a finger inside while Zevran caught her tight peak between his fingers and pinched.

The response was immediate and electric. Solona arched back sharply, breaking the kiss and leaning back into Zevran’s solid chest while biting her lips in a valiant effort to stay silent. Her hips bucked onto his finger, and Alistair gave Zevran’s buttocks a particularly strong squeeze for a job well done. Sol was panting heavily, but somehow even as she trembled she had managed to free both of them from the breeches. Alistair and Zevran both rutted against her small palm, feeling her skin flush through their sensitive members.

A woman lurched, falling and steadying herself against Zevran’s back and Alistair tensed before she drunkenly mumbled an apology and limped way. Alistair felt Sol slicken, her sex getting soaked just as they narrowly avoided being discovered. Enraptured, he added another finger inside and curled them towards him.

She threw her head back and mewled, her voice growing airy every time he swirled his finger inside her, her hips rolling urgently. Alistair eventually kissed her again, swallowing her moans and _yes_ es lest a curious patron decided to investigate her shaking voice. Her hands wrapped around their cocks, and she gave each of them a firm stroke, sliding the velvety skin along the hard length. She gripped him tight, with just the right amount of pressure, dragged his skin all the way to the tip before flicking her thumb over that sensitive spot where the slit met the shaft before dragging back down and Alistair took in a ragged breath, his kisses growing sloppy.

Zevran’s hand disappeared from his behind, only to meet his other one between her legs. Alistair’s lust-addled mind eventually caught up to what he wanted and soon pulled his hand out to give him room, much to Sol’s dissatisfaction. She huffed and wiggled impatiently until Zevran’s fingers were once again buried deep inside to thrust rhythmically for a few strokes before withdrawing.

Sol growled deep in her chest, pumping his cock with a sharp jerk. Alistair was aching – her rough hand was wrapped around his manhood while she herself was flushed and hungering for more, her hair tousled and pupils blown wide, every ragged breath she let out tickling by his ear. The insistent throb of his pulse sped as he watched her squirm, trying to take his fingers back inside. He was almost painfully hard now, and he could not stop the way his hips rolled into her hand even if his life depended on it.

He placed his slick fingers over her pearl, allowing her to feel the barest hint of pressure but giving her no more than that. She moaned and bucked, chasing his elusive fingers with an annoyed huff. Sol fought to spread her legs, the smalls caught above her knees stretching as she tried to open her legs wider for them.

“Patience, Sol.” He murmured, though his body screamed in protest against those words. Her breath hitched, her heavy lids fluttering over her dreamy eyes and Alistair knew Zevran was working his slickened finger into her tight little ass. He waited a beat before he roughly slammed his fingers back inside, watching her perfect mouth part with a groan, felt her fingers tighten around his shaft and drove his cock forward into her grip.

Everything was scorching hot, the heat of her sex surrounding his fingers, the liquid fire that dripped onto his palm, Zevran’s firm buttock he was still kneading, his engorged cock which felt ready to burst at any moment – the fire was building inside him, blazing across his skin, burning where their flesh touched another and he groaned low, felt her clench down around his digits with remarkable strength.

Maker, he needed to be inside her, needed to feel her shudder around him, feel her around his length, be buried between her legs, taking her, giving her all he had to give, to become one with her. Her rhythmic strokes grew wild and eccentric, her breathy moans, _yes_ es, and _please_ s, punctuated by keen mewls and sensual gasps. Alistair met Zevran’s gaze once again – and the man nodded with a grin to let him know she was prepared.

“Ready, mi amor?” Zevran whispered with _that_ particular tone of his, and Sol responded by arching beautifully and releasing their cocks from her firm strokes. Alistair gave a final glance about the tavern – nobody looking to their corner yet – and nodded to Zevran before removing his hand from between her legs.

Zevran slid his cock along her swollen folds, gathering generous amount of her cream and coating himself thoroughly. Alistair released Zevran’s buttock, only to tear her smalls apart before grabbing Sol’s leg to haul it up and wrap it around his waist. Her white frock shimmered, sliding up her thighs, and the time seemed to slow as Zevran pushed into her bottom. Alistair watched, fascinated, as she drew in a slow steady breath, her perfect lashes fluttering as she strained to take the elf all the way. He loved to watch her, kissing her hair, swallowing her little noises, knowing she flew towards ecstasy with every slow drag of Zevran’s rolling hips.

Until Zevran let out a sigh, pressed up completely against her back, buried to the hilt and biting his lips to control himself. Holding onto his Sol and Zevran’s arms tightly, Alistair pressed the head of his cock against her opening, felt her muscles twitch as she attempted to draw him into herself, and groaned at the heat radiating from her core.

“Ready for me, Sol?” He asked.

“Always.” She answered, bringing her arms up to circle around his neck. She opened her eyes and he saw the fierce yearning mirrored in them, the avid _need_ that washed away everything else but his pure love for her. With a growl Alistair plunged into her with a swift thrust, covering her mouth with his hand to muffle the scream he knew she was going to let out.

Solona thrashed in his arms, and Zevran gripped her breasts tighter, twisting the nipples with his talented fingers. Maker, she was so blisteringly hot, so soaking wet, so… so perfect, it was all he could to clench his teeth and endure through the violent spasm of her muscles clamping down on him, to stop himself from following her over the edge then and there. Watching the way Zevran bit down on his own lips, letting a tightly controlled breath out through his nose, Alistair knew his friend was also on the brink, struggling admirably not to spill inside her.

They tittered precariously until she sagged in their embrace, her inner muscles releasing them from the death grip. So he moved.

Alistair pulled out nearly all the way, leaving just the swollen head inside before slamming back into her depth. She mewled into his hand, her muffled cries swiftly pulling him up towards inevitable bliss. He could feel Zevran moving in time with him, feel the solid length of him rubbing against himself through the thin wall inside her. He groaned, watching the man nip and bite at the pale column of her throat, feeling Sol’s nails rake into his back.

He pounded into her, securely anchoring her between his and Zevran’s solid chests and driving into her again and again, losing himself in her, knowing nothing but the pure ecstasy she granted him, basking in her love, relishing the velvety feel of her soft form, the harsh grunts of his friend, of sharing this crazy, intimate, and daring exploit with a man he willingly entrusted his life to. They soared together, moving and breathing as one, racing towards the euphoric bliss with soft pants and whispered sweet words.

Solona shattered in their arms, her cries just barely muffled against his hand, hauling them both into oblivion with that perfect rhythm of her orgasm. Alistair growled, kissing her cheeks as he came, spilling all of his adoration and love into her as Zevran bit the nape of her neck, grunting as he shot thick spurts of his come inside her, murmuring sweet nothings but his voice marked with the devotion and fondness he showed only to her.

Eventually, they fumbled weakly to readjust their thin clothing and straightened, an amused smile lingering by their lips, sharing knowing grins and yet saying nothing. Solona stifled a giggle as she stuffed her ruined knickers into his pocket and punched his arm playfully when he innocently commented on how lovely she looked with their seed dripping down between her legs. Zevran chimed in, complementing her ‘thoroughly-fucked look’ and earning a sharp punch himself. They shared a glance – _completely worth it._

“So…” Zevran started, wiggling his brows at him while Sol muttered and attempted to make herself somewhat decent, covering the creamy trails with her crumpled white frock.

“Best Satinalia, _ever_.” Solona grinned, and Alistair _had_ to agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the first threesome I've ever written. Hope it was fun for you guys


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